


the way you make me feel

by ameliafuckingshepherd



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Civil War Fix-It, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, Implied Sexual Content, Mutual Pining, Natasha Romanov-centric, Pining, Romanogers Smut Week, Shameless Smut, Slow Burn, Smut, Steve Rogers is Not a Virgin, cap is a thirsty bitch, fuck infinity war, that shit never happened
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-11
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-26 04:15:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17738819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ameliafuckingshepherd/pseuds/ameliafuckingshepherd
Summary: Friends with benefits. That's what Captain America and Black widow are to each other. That's what they've been for years. After Civil War, the Avengers regroup and Steve and Natasha find themselves wanting more than just sex. smut/fluff/hurt comfort





	1. black & blue

**Author's Note:**

> its 10pm, ive been working on this for a week, and my only editor is Grammarly, so im saying fuck it and posting the first chapter. it sucks. im sorry.

Once everyone was pardoned and all (well, most) was forgiven, Natasha packs her bags and moves into the Avengers compound. She had been renting a cute little house in upstate new york, all furnished white and red and black. The landlady is a sweet woman in her sixties who has taken a liking to Natasha, made it a habit to drop by every Sunday for tea and crosswords. Strangely, Natasha didn't mind at all. She likes this simple, tucked away life subtle luxury and walks in the forest. She lives (or lived, now) half an hour away from Clint and visited as often as she could. Occasionally SHIELD called her off on missions, but for the most part, she spent her time reading or sleeping just to escape. When Stark invited her to move to the compound with most of the team, she had let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding in. Natasha is bored. She misses her playful, loving family.

So the moving vans come to take all her things away, and Natasha says goodbye to the landlady who had kept her company for the last six months. She grabs the keys to her motorcycle, throwing on a leather jacket. It's balmy, but she’s bound to get cold speeding down the highway.

Natasha tries to forget the events of the last two years as she hurtles down the gravel road. She doesn't want to think about the awkward stiffness that will inevitably fall between her and Steve and whatever the hell they have. They love each other from afar, sharing kisses and beds when they need each other. Sometimes after a particularly hard mission, they fall into each other's arms, kissing trails of fire along the blood and dirt covered skin. Steve will kiss her arms, kiss away the white scars of her past (because he knows, too) and allow her to let down her marble cold, dangerous walls. They do lots of other things that you can’t print in papers, then make their way to the shower and repeat the process all over again. They tumble into bed and don’t mention it the next morning. If the rest of the team notices the spy and soldier sneaking away, they don’t say anything about it. There’s an understanding that everyone copes in different ways. Stark drinks, Wanda cooks, Thor disappears for a few days at a time. They all let each other do whatever they need to do to survive the heavy toll that being an Avenger takes on a person.

Nat doesn’t want to lose their strange half relationship. She cant. They both know it breaks a few rules, but damn it feels good.

She pulls into a gas station about forty minutes from the tower, walking around the candy section. Maybe she’s taking too long on purpose, to avoid the awkward interactions that await her. Or maybe she’s just having a really hard time deciding between sour patch kids and redvines. When the store owner finally asks if she needs help finding something, she smiles and shakes her head. She buys a box of sour patch kids and puts on another coat of lipstick before hitting the road, wind in her hair.

Forty-two minutes later and Natasha rolls into the compound parking lot, all windblown hair and flushed cheeks. No one is there to greet her, and it’s not like there are any signs telling her where to go, so she pulls into the underground parking lot, scanning the new I.D. Stark sent her to get in. FRIDAY takes her up to the penthouse in an elevator all plated in mirrors. Natasha spends the short ride staring at herself. She looks like the same old Natasha, all red lips and red hair and pale, white skin. But she feels different, a mix between resentment and nerves. What if Steve is angry with her for siding with Stark?

The elevator smoothly comes to a stop, halting her worries. Natasha puts on her confident mask, determined not to let anyone pick up on her feelings. The doors open with a ding, opening right into the communal living room. Wanda looks up from her spot at on the brown leather couch, smiling. She comes over and hugs Natasha.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Wanda whispers in her ear. Though they were never as close as Nat is with Clint, they’re the only two girls on the team. They have to stick together. “This place is filled with testosterone.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” Nat pulls away, smiling. “Where’s the rest of the team?”

“Stark is in the lab with Bruce, Bucky, Clint, and Steve are training, Wilson is out patrolling and Vis is reading in his room,” Wanda says, retreating to the kitchen. She pours a cup of coffee from the pot on the island, offering it to Natasha. She takes it from Wanda gratefully. She doesn’t sleep much these days.

“Thanks. I’m going to go unpack some of my stuff, go say hi to the rest of the team. Do you know where my room is?”

“Next to Clint’s. Here, I’ll show you.”

Wanda leads Natasha up a glass staircase and down a long, white hall. Contrary to Avengers tower, this place still feels much too clean and bright. Though the decor is mostly the same, all dark wood and stone accent walls and tastefully placed house plants, the team hasn't broken it in yet. it doesn't feel right without the weapons and empty bags of chips lying around. Natasha’s heels tap against the cement floor, comforting her. It feels like coming home. They pass Stark’s lab, all huge glass windows and the faint vibrations of rock music resonating in the floor. Bruce wears earplugs. Natasha suppresses a laugh. AC/DC is fun for the first week, but after a while hearing bad rock music at one in the morning gets old.

They reach Natasha’s room, and she thanks Wanda before closing the door behind her. The room looks nearly the same as her old room at Avengers tower. Three of the four walls painted white, the last a dark, crimson red. Natasha had sold all the furniture from the little house but her bed, a TV, and a desk. They’re pushed against one wall, the boxes containing her clothes, weapons, and everything else piled on the floor by the closet.

She spends the next hour pushing her bed in the middle of the red wall, tucking her desk into the corner against the floor to ceiling windows. Whoever brought her stuff up hung the red velvet blackout curtains over the windows. Natasha closes them, blocking out the light. She asks FRIDAY to bring the lights up a little, and the AI obliges. Nat has unpacked most of her clothes into the (unnecessarily) large walk-in closet next to her bathroom. The widow suit hangs on the wall next to the door for quick access. Finally, she makes her bed and plugs in her laptop on her nightstand, settling into the black comforter. It’s been a long day. All she wants to do is take a nap.

As soon as her head hits the pillow, she’s asleep because she’s stressed and tired and she just needs to get away right now. She sleeps uneasily, dreaming of the red room, of the little house in the country, of a time when she didn’t need to worry so much 

When Steve wakes her up, it’s already eight o’clock.

“Hey,” He says softly, running a hand along her back.”A pizza just got here, want to come out and eat with us?”

Natasha rolls onto her back, shifting her stiff legs. “Okay.”

“How was your trip here?”

“As good as going down a gravel road on a motorcycle can be.”

She sits up, pulling off her jeans. She moves slowly to her closet, feeling Steve’s eyes on her all the way. 

“Are you okay?”

Nat stops walking and closes her eyes. “I’m fine.”

Steve doesn’t respond, but walks over to her and loops his arms around her waist. He kisses her neck. “I know you. Something is wrong. Talk to me, Tasha.”

“I was scared to come back,” she says honestly, her breath shaking a little. God, she hates talking about her feelings. But something about Steve makes her feel safe. Open. “I was afraid...I didn’t want things between us to change because we fought against each other.”

Steve turns her so she’s facing him. “Nothing needs to change.”

She expects him to go on, but he doesn’t. Neither of them likes expressing their feelings. That's why this works so well. Steve kisses her, but it isn’t soft. It’s desperate. It’s hard and strong, the kiss to make up six months worth of kisses. Natasha is terribly conscious of the fact that she’s wearing only a tank top and underwear. She’s horribly aware of the scars covering her legs and arms, some twenty years old, some ten, some three. But she doesn’t need to feel self-conscious around Steve because he’s seen every inch of her in every state. He’s seen her bleeding and crying and angry and happy and numb.

Steve slides his hand up her back, then to her breast, moving his lips to suck on her neck. They’ve always had a thing for hickeys, always liked leaving a mark on each other. Natasha digs her fingers into his back, holding back a moan because it’s been too long since she’s been touched by anyone and damn, it feels good. 

“Steve-” It comes out embarrassingly breathy. Much too breathy for the Black Widow, the master assassin. Black Widow does not make noises like this.

“Hey, you guys coming or what?” Sam calls from the kitchen, and Natasha comes crashing back to reality.

Natasha pulls away wordlessly, moving quickly to the closet and retrieving a pair of leggings. She pulls them on, taking a moment to fix her hair in the mirrored closet door before raising a hand up to Steve’s chest. She presses her lips to his one more time, in a promise. A promise that late at night she will creep into his room and finish what they started. He tries to deepen the kiss, trying to promise her that everything is going to be okay, but she pulls back. Trailing her hand down his arm, she saunters away, making sure to swing her hips just a little more than usual. Natasha can’t help but smirk a little when Steve sighs heavily behind her. 

Dinner goes smoothly, the team (almost) back to the way it used to be. Sure, there’s some unresolved tension between Vision and Wanda, but Vision is so adoring of the other girl, Natasha can see Wanda forgiving him more every minute. The new addition to their little family is Peter Parker, a fifteen-year-old from queens. Natasha picks up quickly that the kid is Spider-man. It’s clear everyone else knows the teen’s superhero identity, and Natasha feels a little left out. But what else did she expect when she left for six months? Six months changes a person. Changes a relationship. Changes a family. It’s obvious that Stark adores the spider kid, and throughout dinner, Natasha feels him growing on her as well. He’s so passionate and full of energy. Natasha wonders if she was ever like that, before the red room.

Clint suggests watching a movie to celebrate Natasha’s return. Peter immediately jumps in with the suggestion of Star Wars. Stark suggests that maybe they’re a little tired of Star Wars, and the kid looks slightly disappointed. Natasha smiles, saying that star wars would be fun. She has never loved those movies, but they’re entertaining, and her deeply buried maternal instinct wants to see Peter smile. 

She settles on the couch between Clint and Steve. Steve keeps his distance, but under the fluffy blanket, his hand slides over to rest on her thigh. Natasha ignores the light feeling in her stomach; it must be the wine she had at dinner. It feels like...like butterflies. Like when the boy she liked in kindergarten said he liked her dress. But she doesn’t have a crush on Steve fucking Rogers. They use each other for their bodies, for stress relief. Sure, he’s hot, but you can find Captain America hot without like liking him. Oh my god, she sounds like a teenager. 

“I’m uh, going to get some more wine. Anyone want anything?” Natasha says, clearing her throat a little. 

Various superheroes chime in with ‘no thanks’s and ‘yeah, I’ll take a…’s. Natasha pads to the kitchen, glad to be out of there. What the hell does this weird feeling in her stomach mean? She does _not_ like it. Not at all. And why with Steve? They first started this arrangement three years ago, and Natasha has never felt any sort of attraction towards him. She sighs, putting a bag of popcorn in the microwave and a piece of bread in the toaster. Naturally, her solution to every problem is to drink, so she pours wine into a novelty to go cup. It says Paris in cursive letters and has a pink straw. God knows how it ended up in the Avenger’s compound. 

She’s just taken her second sip when she hears Steve’s footsteps coming towards the kitchen. Every member of the team seems to have a distinctive walking pattern, making it easy for Natasha to tell who’s going where. Wanda’s steps are light and soft. Stark’s are tired and dragging. Bruce’s are quiet and tentative. Natasha could describe the way each member’s steps sound for hours, going into deep detail, but the only person’s she hears right now is Steve’s. His footfalls are purposeful and strong, but not loud. They make her feel safe.

Steve doesn’t say anything, just walks to her and pulls her against his chest. Nat casts a glance over the bar, making sure none of the others and watching. They just stay there, listening to each other's heartbeats and the sound of lightsabers against lightsabers. Sam says something, and Peter laughs. There’s the unmistakable sound of a slap, and an angry “hey! What was that for?”. The microwave beeps, and a moment later the toaster dings. Natasha reaches up for a bowl to dump the popcorn in as Steve butter Wanda’s toast. 

After a moment and the clank of Steve getting a plate, he says “are you drinking wine out of a sippy cup?”

“Yes, and??” she replies, putting a second bag of popcorn in the microwave. 

“I’d be more impressed if I could actually get drunk.” This comment earns a small smile from Natasha.

There’s a few moments of silence, only the sound of the team’s laughter and the microwave apparent. 

“Let’s get out of here. We can get dinner or something.” Steve suggests.

“Are you asking me on a date, Rogers?” Nat teases back. 

“Maybe.” The Captain sounds much more serious than he looks in his Captain America shirt and sweats. Five years ago, she never would have pegged him as the kind of guy to wear his own merch, but she knows him now. She knows him well enough to hide that his answer takes her aback because the slightest sign of rejection could scare him off, and Natasha still needs to figure out what the hell is going on between them. 

“Okay,” Natasha says. “I should get my coat.” 

Steve picks up a grey hoodie she hadn’t noticed was crumpled on the counter and follows her silently down the hall. Natasha gets a fluffy black jacket out of her closet, throwing on a scarf as well. Steve doesn’t get cold easily, but it’s autumn in new york. Not the warmest time of the year. 

They sneak out, and Natasha feels slightly guilty when she sees the team’s snacks sitting forgotten on the counter. They’re mostly asleep, anyways. Friday takes them down to the garage silently, as if she knows they’re trying to be quiet. The lights in the elevator are dimmed to a faint blue, reverent of the Arc reactor and Stark Industries days long past. Steve’s hand finds Natasha, and she turns, raising her lips up to his. He looks like a phantom in the dim, ghostly light. It feels a little like anything could happen. 

This kiss is soft. Gentle. Hesitant. It feels like coming home. Over the last decade of her life, Natasha has learned that a home is not just a place, it’s the people around you. Home is the people who make you laugh and cry and smile, the people who make you blush in the dark of an elevator. The people who can say a thousand words to you without using their voice once. Home is sitting at a dinner table, laughing about the burnt pasta in front of you and saying fuck it, let’s just get takeout. It’s being handed a cup of tea after having a bad day. It’s talking and having someone to listen. That is home. Sometime after she joined the Avengers, Natasha realized that Russia was never her home. Her new friends, no, her _family_ , showed her that without even realizing it. And now this man in front of her, this man who has changed her so much, is kissing her and it feels right.

The elevator dings open. Steve pulls her over to his motorcycle, silently handing her the only helmet. She begins to protest, but he shakes his head. Natasha doesn’t argue. It feels good to have someone who puts her first. They climb on the bike, Natasha linking her arms around Steve’s waist. They ride for a long time, stopping in a small, dark town west of the compound. Natasha is beginning to wonder what the hell they’re doing here when Steve pulls into a dusty, old diner. Steve pulls into the parking lot, easing the bike to a stop. He dismounts, And Natasha struggles to stay upright. Her legs are stiff, and the ride has lulled her into a peaceful, almost sleeping state. 

Steve chuckles a little. “Need some help, Romanoff?”

Natasha glares at him, balancing herself, which only makes him laugh more. Despite his obvious amusement, he places his hand on the small of her back to steady her. It makes that stupid butterfly feeling come back. Natasha hates it.

They walk into the diner at exactly midnight. The hostess looks up and smiles. “Your usual spot, Mr. Rogers?”

“Please. Thanks, Lydia.”

The young Hispanic woman leads them to a curved booth in the corner. It’s shadowed and slightly hidden from the rest of the restaurant, and it has a stunning view of the hills and stars beyond the glass.

“You brought a friend. Is this Ms. Rogers?” The waitress asks, giving Steve a sly glance. A light blush colors his cheeks.

“Call me…” Black Widow? Ms. Romanoff? Natalie? “Call me Natasha.” Natasha smiles as warmly as she can (because this woman seems almost like an aunt to Steve and it confuses the hell out of her, but she also wants to be herself. Not Widow, not Natalie, not Ms. Romanoff. Natasha.

“Well, it’s lovely to meet you Natasha. Do you want anything to drink? On the house.”

“Oh, that’s really not necessary.” Natasha quickly responds, but she’s grateful for the generosity.

“I insist. Steve here is practically family, we’ve been waiting for him to bring a girl.”

Now it’s Natasha’s turn to blush. “I’ll take a vanilla milkshake, then.”

Steve orders a cherry coke (of course he does) and a coffee. They stay silent for a moment as Lydia sets down menus and silverware. 

“So, what’s the story with this place?” Natasha asks, adjusting herself in the booth. It’s squishy and cozy, she sinks down a few inches into the red vinyl. 

Steve blows out a breath. “Before everything happened, Buck and I used to come out here during the summer. We’d stay with his mom’s sister and come by this diner every day. The woman who ran it back then was Lydia’s mother, and she’d always give us free soda. Said she had boys of her own off at war. When I got defrosted I came back here for a while to get my head together. Lydia rented me a room and let me pick up shifts at the restaurant. Now I visit whenever I can.”

“Thank you. For sharing this with me.” Natasha rests her hand over his, saying what she can’t find the words for with her eyes. She is so honored, so grateful to know about this part of Steve’s life.

When Lydia comes back with their drinks, Natasha orders french toast and steve orders pancakes. Silently, Natasha offers a sip of her milkshake to Steve. He takes the straw from her and sucks it up and holy fuck no one should be able to look this hot drinking a milkshake in an oversized t-shirt and sweats. She tugs her eyes away from his mouth with the mental reassurance that she’ll see much hotter things tonight once they get home.

They spend hours talking, hardly noticing when their food arrives. After a minute, the smell of syrup and butter becomes apparent and they turn away from each other and toward the breakfast food. They talk and laugh and Natasha notices for the first time in a while that she isn’t hiding. The persona she puts on to fight bad guys is all fake. The sexiness and deception and flirting and using her body to get what she wants isn’t really her. SHe knows that the stuck up, goody two shoes that is Captain America isn't really Steve either. 

And maybe she feels a little silly sitting in an actual, public place wearing no bra, a teddy bear jacket, and a pair of slippers (in her defense, Steve never told her where they were going. She doesn’t put proper shoes on for just anywhere), sharing a milkshake with this large, blond man with abs in a little diner at one in the morning. But it’s just so perfectly _them_. Nat wouldn’t have it any other way.

When they finally pay the bill, its two sixteen in the morning and the only thing keeping Natasha awake is the promise of what lies underneath the Nike sweatpants around Steve’s waist. The motorcycle grumbles in protest as the two superheroes climb on and rev the engine. The ride home is much chillier, causing Natasha to pull herself closer to Steve. His body always feels ten degrees warmer than everything else; maybe it’s a super soldier thing. Whatever was in that serum did crazy things to little twink Steve.

Natasha loses track of time. They pull into the parking garage at the compound much later than Natasha ever intended on being out. Steve half carries her exhausted body to the elevator, by which point the biting cold has woken her. Stark doesn’t bother to heat the garages. Natasha stands pressed to Steve’s side, glad for the warmth of the elevator. The soft, blue light illuminates him again, making his eyes glow bluer than usual. 

Soft lips touch soft lips, blush pink meeting drawn on flame red. Creme skin clashes into tan muscles as those lips brush and suck and lick until Natasha pulls away.

“Not yet,” she murmurs. Steve’s head drops onto her shoulder, giving up it’s position near her neck. She knows there’s already marks there, and more forming now. Tomorrow, she’s going to be black and blue.


	2. butterflies & cutting knives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been rotting in my drive for MONTHS, so i finally finished it. its so bad lmao i'm sorry maybe the next chapter will be better

Natasha and Steve creep into the living room, careful not to disturb the rest of the team. They’re all spread out on various couches, a few of them face down on the fluffy white carpet. The TV is off, probably Friday’s doing. Natasha vaults over the counter silently, shrugging off her jacket and grabbing her sippy cup of wine. It looks like at some point someone got up to get the snacks they’d made as well as a bowl of cereal. There are lucky charms scattered across the counter, the box laying on its side.

 

Natasha sits on the counter and drinks the wine (because sex is always better when you’re buzzed), making sure to push her chest out. Steve, not quite graceful enough to silently jump over the counter, has walked around. He’s shed his hoodie, hair rumpled. Natasha waits for him to come to her, and after a minute he does, placing his hands on her thighs. Natasha sets down her cup, trading the straw for the captain’s mouth. She sucks on his lower lip, coaxing a groan out of him. They trade off being dominant and submissive, swirling tongues and coaxing red hot heat to the surface of their skin. Steve trails down her neck with open-mouthed, sucking kisses down the pale skin. Natasha digs her nails into his shoulder, allowing her head to tip back. Heat pools in her stomach. Steve easily lifts her up, securing his hands under her legs. He carries them to his room.

They fall onto the pale blue bedspread, Friday closing the door behind them with a small hiss. At first, the automatic doors freaked Natasha out, reminding her of hospitals. Of the operating room they took her to sterilize her at the red room (she dreamed of having children as a little girl, and though she realized as she grew older that it was unrealistic, she’s furious that Madame B. took away the choice). But after many nights of balancing on dagger-like heels after a long day of undercover work, or holding a gun and a cup of tea and her phone in one too few hands, she’s come to see the use of the doors. Plus, it looks cool.

“Would you like me to fog the glass, Captain?” the AI asks.

Steve manages a strangled “yes” before going back to Natasha's mouth. Natasha rolls away from Steve and rearranges them so his back is leaning against the headboard. Natasha pulls at the hem of his shirt, hands shaking a little. He helps, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. Natasha straddles him, kissing him hard. Steve tangles his hand in her hair, pulling her closer to him. She doesn’t need much encouraging. She’s always been touch starved from the shocking lack of physical affection in her childhood, always more than happy to be hugged or even sat next to. Clint realized this almost as soon as he met her, always seeming to have a hand on her shoulder or arm. Natasha has never properly thanked him for that. Steve is just as needy as she is, so they go well together. 

Steve lifts her tank top, breaking their kiss. It slips off easily enough, exposing her pale breasts. Friday has dimmed the light to a low red, the way they like it. It’s a little weird that an AI knows how they like to have sex, but that’s honestly the least of Natasha’s worries. There’s something so mysterious about the red light, something so fun and sexy and a little bit scary. Steve’s hands move up to her chest, cradling her. He looks at her for a few moments, both their breathing heavy. Natasha goes back to kissing him, but he gently pushed her back. She looks at him, confused. 

“Wait,” he murmurs. “I just want to...you’re radiant, you know that?”

Natasha feels her throat tighten. Steve has called her beautiful so many times, in so many ways and it always jerks the same reaction from her. She knows she’s sexy, she knows she’s hot, she knows she’s gorgeous, she’s been told that by every man and woman she’s ever met. But no one has ever called her radiant and dazzling and stunning. Steve appreciates her for her body _and_ for who she is as a person-which is more than she’s ever gotten from anyone else. From childhood, all anyone wanted from her was her body. The red room wanted her for her grace and small form. SHIELD wanted her for her spy and assassination talents. Steve just seems to want her for her. Sure, her body helps. Her body is perfect, she’s big enough to admit that.

“I-” Natasha tries, but chokes, and ends up shaking her head quickly.

“Well, you should.” Steve raised his mouth back to hers. 

Natasha mouthes a small thank you against his lips, and by the way his hand presses just a little harder against her back, she knows he understands.

They kiss for what feels like hours. Then, to put it shortly, they fuck.

For a long time. 

Like, enough time that they hear someone’s early morning alarm go off a few rooms away. Probably Sam, always one for early morning runs (but seriously, it’s like, four am. What the hell?). So Natasha collapses in bed next to Steve, exhausted but happy. Happy is such a strong word. She’s satisfied. They fall asleep, the spy draped across the captain, legs tangles with legs, hands tangled with hair, lips still clashed together. 

Natasha wakes from a dreamless sleep (the first in many months), only to see that it’s eleven in the morning. 

“Rogers. Cap. Capsicle.” Natasha pokes him and shakes him, attempting to rouse him from his super solder sleep.

“not you too,” he grumbles, rolling away from her and burying his face in the pillow.

“Sorry,” Natasha replies in a tone that implies she was not very sorry at all to be calling Captain America a popsicle. “But it’s almost noon, we should shower.”

“Shower?” Steve turns his head slightly, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, _shower_. Get up or the team will come looking for us.” It’s an empty threat. Sometimes an Avenger doesn’t come out of their room for an entire day and no one really notices. But it gets Steve out of bed quick enough.

They’re both naked, clothes thrown around the room. Steve used to be so self-conscious around her. He used to look for any way to hide his naked form from her, so she usually looked away out of courtesy. Thankfully, that’s changed over the last few years. Natasha loves the mornings when they wake up beside each other, loves how Steve traces lines across all her scars and imperfections. Sometimes they just lay there, staring into each other's eyes, having conversations without any words.

Steve sits up, sunlight streaming through the windows and hitting him in all the right ways. He looks at her as if he’s trying to memorize every bit of what she looks like. His intense gaze makes her feel a little bit uneasy.

“What is it?” She asks.

“Nothing.”

“Then why are you looking at me like it’s the last time you’ll see me?” her mouth quirks sideways; she props herself up on an elbow.

“I missed you, Tasha. Is that a crime now?”

“I guess not,” Natasha replies, bringing herself up to kiss him. “For the record, I missed you, too.”

“Shower.” 

“Right.” Natasha gets up, sighing. She pads into the bathroom, turning on the water. She takes a moment to feel a little jealous about Steve’s marble bathroom but consoles herself with the thought of her black and red themed one. It’s way cooler, anyway. 

She steps under the spray of hot water, Steve following. His hand finds a home on her waist as he pulls her closer to him. She rests her head on his chest, closing her eyes. She’s still exhausted. She allows Steve to wash her hair with strawberry smelling shampoo, and wash her body with soap that smells exactly like he does (clean laundry and that dusty smell that floods the room when you turn on the heater for the first time in a while). She doesn’t know how they managed to capture that in a soap, but it’s perfectly Steve Rogers (and if she goes out and buys three bars of it later that day, no one needs to know).

Long minutes (or hours, she can't tell) later, the water runs cold. Steve guides Natasha out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her dripping form. He trails sloppy kisses down her neck, over yesterday’s bruises.

“Clothes.”

“Right,” he nods, walking into his closet and grabbing clothes seemingly at random while Natasha searched for hers around the room. She manages to recover most of them (had she really only been wearing one sock the night before? There’s no way to be sure…), taking a hoodie off Steve’s coffee table. It’s black and soft and ridiculously _huge_ on her, falling halfway down her thighs, not to mention the fact that it says “I PUNCHED HITLER” in huge letters across the chest. She has to admit, it’s kind of rad. Plus, it smells like Steve.

“Looks a little big on you, Romanoff.”

Natasha simply sends a glare in his direction, pulling her fingers through her hair. She walks out of the room with head held high, making a beeline to the kitchen for coffee. 

“Morning, Red,” Stark greets over a piece of Nutella toast. 

“Want some toast with your nutella?”

Stark doesn’t look up from his laptop but flips her off all the same. Natasha connects her Bluetooth headphones and presses shuffle on her playlist. Even assassins need music. Natasha fills a mug and takes a sip. Steve comes up loops his arms around her waist, pressing his lips to her neck. 

He’s almost as silent as Natasha when sneaking up on people. _almost._

“Coffee?”

“Nope. heading down to the pool to do some laps later, want in?” 

Natasha nods, smiling. 

Bit by bit, the other avengers trickle into the kitchen and living room, all in various states of sleep deprivation. On a scale of Bruce, who looks dead on his feet, to Wanda, who’s perky as ever, Natasha is probably somewhere in the middle (a Rhodey). Awake, but still not awake enough. They throw food and argued as always, Clint and Sam whispering back and forth. In moments like these, Natasha really wishes she has super hearing like some of her other teammates. Clint stands up, steps on the table (ignoring the several exclamations of “what the fuck, dude?”), and hoists himself into the vents. He’d never admit it, but Natasha is sure that Stark had the vents built large enough to fit their resident bird because Clint had gotten stuck more than a few times back at the tower.

“Well, now seems like a good time to go swimming, before these idiots do something,” Natasha announced, looking at Steve. 

“Uh, yes. See you later.” 

They exited, going their separate ways to their rooms with the promise to meet down at the pool in ten minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, no sex scene after all. i tried, i really did, but i just couldn't do it. 
> 
> on another note, if you read some of my more recent stories, they all contain swimming. i really love swimming. meaning you guys have to read it to get to the romance (dont worry, there's going to be lots of pining and kissing)

**Author's Note:**

> sexy times chapter next ;) ive written exactly one (1) sex scene in my entire life so im gonna try my best but my best is, like, a 3/10 on a good day
> 
> edit: i watched the avengers again and realized that the tower isnt all white and glass and that there's a lot of stone/concrete in the places tony designed to i wanted to incorporate that. i went back and put more detail in so yall could get that image


End file.
